


all my gods look like you

by softshocks



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, byleth bottoms so hard she ends up in hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 12:56:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20639534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softshocks/pseuds/softshocks
Summary: It is desire; pure, unadulterated desire. It consumes you, like an uncreated flame, and you let it.





	all my gods look like you

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to hell. Here’s your welcoming kit with complimentary vodka, vegan cookies, a guide to navigating the eternal trenches of despair, and some socks because it gets kinda cold and a fan because it gets kinda hot
> 
> My obsession to understand organized religions is finally useful for something
> 
> For gabs, emilia, pri

You have never truly been one for religion and faith. 

Jeralt had raised you without what he considered a burden to a child, feeling as if being raised within the confines of something rigid and organized would have impeded your development as a person. 

Growing up, you never saw the need for it as well. Perhaps being raised to do what you had to do, all the blood on your ledger earning your _ ashen demon _ title, hadn’t been possible if you had a moral compass and a code of ethics often dictated by your faith or your belonging to a group of people who, more or less, shared the same ideals. 

(Then you think about how all those times, Rhea hadn’t been different from any of the other tyrants that roamed Fodlan. 

How she was ruthless and relentless, but you love her, anyway.) 

Living as a nomad for all of your life, you’d consider it a blessing to have seen all the corners of the region and all the people that inhabit it. Not all of them believed in the goddess, much to Sothis’ displeasure as you find out much later, some believed but didn’t necessarily agree with certain parts and found it irreconcilable to be one single church, some worshipped the nature that surrounds them and many more.

It had been an interesting childhood, absorbing all these nuances, seeing how faith and religion answer people’s questions. You were never someone who pondered why exactly you were truly here, alive and being, until recently. You were rather tossed into the deep sea of wondering about your place in the fabric of this existence, unwillingly at first but you’ve accepted it.

Despite these changes, there was always a disconnect between Sothis and your spiritual needs, if you had any at all. You never saw her the way her believers did, and while it had been odd to you, you never really had it in you to say that the goddess they knew was so unlike the goddess at all.

You have never truly been one for religion and faith.

Yet, as Rhea towers before you, her casual white gown riding up dangerously on her thighs, strong and firm, locked securely at your hips. Her hair is down, as it has been recently, with the war at its peak and with how she dresses differently. Dresses like herself, from a millennia ago. 

You would be lying if she hadn’t felt something echo deep within her bones at the sight of Seiros, not as something mythical exactly, but just as powerful and knee-buckling. 

It is desire. Pure, unadulterated desire. It consumes you, like an uncreated flame, and you let it.

You feels it so deeply and so terribly, as yourself - not as the ashen demon, not as the enlightened one. 

Her hair curtains around you, surrounds you like an impermeable wall that can only be brought down with trumpets, enveloping you in a cocoon of burning want and desperation. She unfastens the buttons with steady fingers, revealing her pale skin, with absolutely no trace of war and the years that you think she’s lived. Your hands ache to touch them and you do, and the skin of her stomach is soft under the hard muscle that lies underneath. 

It hadn’t always been like this. The touches you shared then were shy, so very bashful, loving. You touch Rhea with the same amount of love and care but now, at moments like this, it should terrify you how you feel like you’re about to be consumed by a fire within you. 

“My love,” Rhea says, as you try to divest her of her clothing. You make it successfully to undo the buttons of the upper part of her dress, but you don’t make it far as she catches the lobe of your ear with her canines, just the way she knows you like.

It drives you against the wall, unfailingly, and it’s not about to stop now. The sharpness of it sends a shock right into your core and you know that if Rhea touches you any more, you might come undone with just a few ministrations as embarrassing as that may be. 

“My love,” she whispers into your ear, her voice low and soothing but you know how much power it holds. You heard it as a nurturing lover, and you heard it full of rage but never directed towards you. She sighs and presses a kiss under your ear and you realize, in the haze of your lust, that the woman that sits in your lap and kisses you like she has never wanted anything else in her life is your salvation and your sins. 

Your salvation, because you know that she will never allow harm to come your way and that she was, in all senses, a saint. A saint with bloodied hands. _ I will follow you to the eternal darkness if it meant we were together, _Rhea had once told you, with such ferocity and devotion that you know she means it. 

Sometimes you are reminded that Rhea was just as much of a sinner, understanding she is flawed and makes flawed decisions. Yet as she moves above you - the clothing that separates you two only partially giving access to places Byleth wants to touch and kiss and squeeze, with a blush that spreads across her cheeks and the tips of her pointed ears that you love so much—

You are reminded that you are a sinner and that she, Saint Seiros herself, was the spring of the sin which you drink from with indescribable desperation, with her lips to the water, uncaring of who will see. 

Clumsy hands fumble at the wraps that protect Rhea’s chest, and you manage to undo it with some help on her end. She reveals herself to you, the first message, and you know your mouth must speak it, and you understand that at this moment, speaking is not speaking, so you latch onto her nipple to make the word flesh. You lay your tongue flat on nub before licking a strip up to repeat the motion. 

Rhea, above you, gasps and arches her body into you, her elegance and control slipping away. You can feel it in the growing pleasure-pain as she digs her nails deeper into the muscles of your shoulders as you lick the salt from her skin.

“How do you want me, my dearest?” She says, her voice like a prayer, even as she pushes her chest so close to your mouth. You know what she has in mind, from the way she inches closer to you that your torsos are almost pressed together.

You touch the exact place at her ribs where you know Rhea had taken a hit, kissing the center of each of her palms, before lying back with your head landing softly on a pillow with a _ thump. _

Tonight, you worship her and admire her from below, as if you were looking up at an ivory statue or a stained-glass masterpiece. 

Rhea kisses you, and then swiftly divests herself of her clothing before she moves closer, coming closer to the headboard on her knees so that the juncture of her thighs are directly above your face. The second revelation, you note, and your mouth waters at the beauty before you that if you had been any more adept with your emotions, you would weep. 

_ This the altar you worship on,_ you think briefly, before wrapping your hands around Rhea’s thighs to kiss around the area and she jolts, laughs, then threads her lovely hands into your hair. Your tiny, open-mouthed kisses to the insides of her thighs are your ways of genuflecting, and she is enjoying every bit of it. 

Rhea is wet, so wet, your nose glistens with it and you haven’t even kissed her there properly. The moles scattered on her skin look like constellations of stars that were promised.

And when you do, pulling her thighs down to meet her, the moan that she lets out sounds so holy but so sacrilegious, as if all the statues in the cathedral have been smashed to pieces and vandalized. 

The curl of Rhea’s brows, the scent of her, the way she grabs onto your hair is like iconoclasm for the sake of having this image the only thing people should worship: the hard plane of her stomach, her breasts that sway with the motion of her body relying heavily on the movement of your tongue against her folds, her knitted brows and her slack-jawed expression with her canines at full-view. It's a work of art, and people must worship it.

You are doing it right now, tonguing at her wetness below her and with her knees positioned on each side of your head, and you see no reason to not do it for the rest of your life.

“Dearest… Byleth,” she sighs, each one a holy word, in between her cries of pleasure as you tongue deeper into her and nose the nub that sends shocks of pleasure through you both. “Byleth...” she says, like a holy word, and like a curse, and for a moment it’s like she says it in a language of the higher beings. 

Her hand moves from the headboard to massage at her breast, but it moves down to seek yours. You let go of her thighs when she brings it up to her mouth to put three fingers in, tonguing around it and sucking every digit. 

The flame consumes you and you aren’t sure if you’ll recover from that sight and sensation. 

(You wonder, briefly, why making love with Rhea always feels like you can’t recover from it.) 

You feel her sharp canines when she takes your fingers into her mouth, hot and wet and you think you might come undone from just this. 

She releases your hand with a pop. “Say my name, please,” Rhea implores quietly, her hair in disarray. The candlelight casts a halo around her head and it never fails to make you feel like her presence was not of this realm. 

“Rhea,” you say, lifting her hips a bit. You take a moment to breathe, and you realize that your face is a mess from the mess between her legs and your own saliva as the night air cools it.

“No, dearest,” she shakes her head, before taking your fingers again into her mouth. 

Then you remember and you are consumed by all sensations of her. “Seiros, Seiros,” you try to say, muffled when you lower her back onto your mouth. “Seiros, I adore you,” you say, like a litany, like a prayer.

Rhea, ever compassionate with you, hears and she comes undone. Her back arches like a bow, her grip in your hair tightens and she bites down on your hand, hard enough to graze the skin of your fingers lightly, slightly puncturing it. This is the third revelation and you take in the message as if your life depended on it.

You are so taken with the image of her coming, wanting to have it immortalized in a work of art that will transcend time, that you don’t even feel the small pain in your finger.

When she comes down, each of her heaved sighs feel like a thank you. She releases your hand with a pop, wipes away the tiniest droplet before settling above you to kiss you senseless, like a thanksgiving. 

She kisses you, tonight, and you know that she will be set on returning the favor. You kiss her and then submit completely to the uncreated flame that burns inside you.

**Author's Note:**

> [Some notes I had for the biblical references](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1dv8Gm2pf-k3KqFF9cMRoNI0EIhwLLtZC) I mentioned here, for anyone who's interested. I realized after posting this that not all readers of this fic are Catholic-Christian and since I grew up as one, what might be familiar to me is foreign to someone else. Hope it helps!
> 
> Come say hi, i’m @hausofbora on twitter, sharpshocks on tumblr


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